Somehow, We Never Saw Where It Was Going

So after a very pleasant few days in Montreal and then Quebec, it was time to go home.  Unfortunately, United Airlines had other plans.   They seemed to think we should apply for Canadian citizenship instead.

We arrived at the airport at zero-dark-thirty (with not even a sip of coffee to improve the mood since our beautifully renovated hotel (HA!) did not begin serving coffee till 6am.  Um, hellooooooo....no coffee??? Seriously?  So you want people to be surly and uncommunicative when they check out?  Job well done.) to stand in a moderately long line for check-in. (No coffee, no self-check-in.  We should have seen where this was going.)

There were two United flights leaving at approximately the same time, ours and one to Chicago. There were three people working at the counter: one for the Chicago flight, who seemed able to work a computer, deal with customers and chew gum at the same time; one for our flight, who seemed able to chew gum, and...nope, that's about it, she could chew gum; and one handling the "priority" customers, who seemed only slightly more talented than the woman taking care of our line.  Maybe.  Apparently, our need for coffee was even greater than we thought, because Helen Keller would have seen where this was going.

Now it just so happened that a fairly large group of people swarmed into the priority line at this point because they had "oversized" baggage (sports equipment) with them and claimed they had talked to some employee or other who gave them the go-ahead to get into the priority line (You can see where this is going, right?  Yeah.  We still didn't.)

Meanwhile, the woman working the "Chicago" line finished with her last customer and.....naturally....only to be expected.....started chatting with another employee. GRRRRRRR. But then, wonder of wonders, she logged on to another computer, put up a sign that listed our flight... and then shut everything down and took her break.   Double GRRRRRRRR. (Once again, we should have seen this coming a mile off.  Damn coffee withdrawl!)

Hey, don't mind us.  We've only been standing here for an hour and a half inching forward like constipated snails pulling a wheel of cheddar.  And we really appreciated the game of "got your nose" that you just played with us.  What a fun way to start off the day before being stripped searched, then herded into a metal tube with a hundred of our closest friends,  strapped into a seat designed for one of Santa's undersized elfs,  unloaded through a shoot narrower than a livestock pen to claw our way through a mob to reclaim our bags only to stand in another line.  (And we still didn't see where this was going.)

"I'm sorry,  we've overbooked the flight and there are no more seats available," the woman tried to fake sincerity for our plight.  "We can see if someone with a seat would be willing to give up their tickets for compensation."

Oh.  Yeah. Right.  Labor Day weekend, and you think that three  people are going to give up their seats.  What drugs did you put in your coffee this morning? 

"What's the next flight you can get us out on?"  I asked, trying to hold Tim back from hurdling the counter and making her one with her computer.  How could she not see where this was going?

Rose just pretended she didn't know us.

"Well..." Tap, tap, tap.  "I see a flight to Montreal with a five hour layover and then a late afternoon flight to DC."

So, let me get this straight.  Montreal has hotels where you can actually fit into the bathrooms, cab drivers who don't mess with your heads, and now the only flights home?  If only we had seen where this was going three days ago.

"Fine, we'll take it."


Twenty minutes later, she was still tapping on her computer with not a ticket in sight. 

Um, I hate to interrupt the copy of War and Peace that you are clearly typing out, but any chance we are going to get our tickets before we miss the flight?

"Oh.  You have to go to the window down there," gesturing the counter furthest away in the airport, "for the tickets.  I am working on compensation for you."

Now Tim was holding me back.

"Give us our passports NOW." I channelled the Great and Powerful Oz. This was going to a very bad place, very quickly.

"Here are the passports for Tim and Rose," she offered.

Yup.  She could just about manage to chew gum on a good day.

They took off for the other counter, while the tapping continued.  After another eternity, she upped the degree of difficulty and got on the phone as well.  

Oh, goody.  Now it can take you eight times as long. Going downhill on skates.

Rose came rushing back.

"They are closing the window now," she panted.  "If you don't get down there, you'll miss the flight."

The girl behind the counter still tapped and whispered into the phone, unperturbed.

"I need my passport.  Now." I snapped.

"But I'm still working on your compensation.  Don't you want your $100 coupon toward another flight?"

She should have seen where that was going before she even opened her mouth.

Speak Up!!!

Upon arrival in Quebec, we arranged to do a tour of the city with a guide.  Too bad we didn't bring an interpreter.  One who knew sign language.

At first, everything seemed okay.  Our guide was a nice, older gentleman who pointed out all the historic sights as we passed them.

"And there is Joan of Arc gardens......Here is the the Cathedral......This is the American Consulate."

All very interesting, but then we started to ask questions and things got really interesting.

"Are those the remains of the original fort down there, under the boardwalk?"

"What's that?   You want to walk?"

"No" (louder).  "Remains of the fort?" (pointing to the area in question)

"Names of sports?  Well...let's see."

"The original fort.  FORT!!!  REMAINS!!!  RUINS!!! YOU KNOW, MILITARY.  BANG BANG!...Oh, never mind." I finished lamely as he walked away, probably trying to figure out why I wanted to play sports with a broken foot.

"And here is the first school for girls, started by the Urselines in the 1600's...." And then proceeded to give us a fifteen minute history lesson while trying to open the door of the chapel which was locked and labeled as closed till the afternoon.

Hoping to distract him, I foolishly asked a seemingly innocuous question: "Has school started here yet for the year?

"The start of school?  Well, it was in the 1600's that the Urselines opened the first school........"

Dreading a repeat of the same lecture, I tried to head him off at the pass. "NO.  SCHOOL  THIS YEAR.  AUGUST?  SEPTEMBER?"

  I started pantomiming reading a book and writing, like that was actually going to help. (It reminded me of the time in Italy where they turned the air conditioning off for the night and expected you  to open your windows.  BUG SPRAY! I remember my mother shouting at the desk clerk, because speaking really loudly always makes you instantly understandable to someone speaking another language.  YOU KNOW, PSSSSSSSST! (using an imaginary aerosol can) AAAARGH! (Grabbing her throat to mimic a mosquito choking on fumes), CLECH ( tongue out, eyes rolled back in head, head flopping to one side).  Not only did we not get bug spray, I think they slipped some Prozac into our morning coffee, and dear God, I really have become my mother!)

"Today is August 29.  You think it's cool?  Probably a lot hotter where you are from, eh?"

I bowed my head in defeat.

Tim and Rose fared no better.  They asked about the average price for a condo unit he pointed out and he told them about the exchange rate of the Canadian dollar.  Tim asked something about the government, and he responded by showing him the gardens outside the parlaiment and asking him to translate the names of the herbs from French into English.

"OREGANO! BASIL! PARSLEY!" Tim was shouting out names like he was Mr. Greenjeans making a salad.

Mercifully, the tour ended, and we were left to our own devices and the guidebook.  But the fun was not over yet.

The next night, we went out for dinner to a restaurant that was too far to walk to with my boot.  Upon leaving the restaurant, we hailed a cab and climbed in.

"The Frontenac," Tim said, shutting the door.

The driver bent his head toward us, cupping a hand to his ear.

Tim repeated the name of the hotel, a bit louder.

The driver leaned closer, a puzzled look on his face. Rose and I exchanged glances.

"FRONTENAC!"  Tim bellowed, pointing up the hill.

Once again, the driver gestured for him to be louder.

"FRON-TEN-AC!" Rose and I joined in this time, doing our best to be heard...in Miami.

Visions of ending up in Vancouver drifted through my mind, or worse yet, an hour-long disemenation on the difference between the FRONT and the BACK.  Our hands were on the door handles, ready to abandon Tim to his fate when the driver burst out laughing.

"I'm only kidding," he chortled.  I heard you the first time."

NOT FUNNY.

You Can't Judge A Book By Its Cover...Or a Hotel By Its Website

Many years ago, Tim, myself, and five other family members travelled to Ireland together.  I am still trying to repress those memories. 

We stayed mostly at small  B&Bs, but decided to treat ourselves to one really nice hotel/castle for a night.  The brochure boasted endless, rolling, green lawns with a plethora of outdoor sports and activities to partake in.  And inside?  Even better.   Plushly furnished rooms that would have made a Hollywood set decorator  with an unlimited budget green with envy at what they could never achieve.

At least, that's what the brochure promised.  The reality??? Not even close.  Think Phantom of the Opera (and I mean the Phantom's lair underneath the opera house) meets Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (no explanation necessary). 

First of all, the castle was located in Brigadoon and only appeared once every hundred years.  Sign on one side of the bridge in town: Castle Ahead.  Sign on other side of the bridge facing opposite direction: Castle Ahead.  Hmmm.  So the castle is halfway across the bridge in the water? air?  Well, that's one way to keep those pesky tourists out.

After crossing the bridge for the four thousandth time, asking directions from every farmer, tourist, cow and goat, we finally did find the castle, and it probably would have been better if it had indeed been located underwater.  At least fighting off the Loch Ness monster (or its Irish cousin) would have given us something to do.

Upon check-in, we enquired about the skeet shooting.

Oh, sure, that's once a year we have the big competition.  You just missed it.

Sigh.  Horseback riding?

Ah and sure isn't there a stable just a wee bit down the road.

Wee bit down the road: Irish-speak for "the other side of the country".  No way were we leaving the castle to disappear into the mists of time with all our luggage inside.  I mean, come on.  Where would I find another gazillion watt hair dryer in the land time forgot?

And then there were the rooms.

Our room in particular looked like it had last been renovated in the 50's...the 1850's.  By a decorator who specialized in houses of ill repute.  Who was drunk at the time.  And hated his client.

Big gold cupids flitted around an overly ornate chandelier that looked like it belonged in a third-rate horror movie which hovered above an orange carpet (or what used to be an orange carpet.  It was hard to tell what the original color was under all the stains).  The four poster bed was carved with demonic cherubs leering down at the bed's occupants like Johns at a 42nd Street peep show.

 The tub and shower curtain had so many layers of filth coating them, that we would not have been surprised to find out  Jimmy Hoffa was under them all.  The poor bugger had probably checked in and become entangled in the centuries of crud and simply...disappeared.

The other rooms were equally charming.  My mother and sister were in the turret on cots (guess they forgot to put those pictures in the brochure) which actually was a relief, since when we booked the hotel, they thought we were asking for cats!  Would you like tabby or ginger-striped?  (Whoa!  What kind of weird, crazy-assed cots do you people have in this country?  Ah well, that's another blog)

So now, many years later, an entire ocean away, we were once again planning to treat ourselves to a "special" hotel in Canada. 

The pictures on their website looked amazing.  "Huge renovation!" they advertised.  A face lift for a beautiful, historic grande-dame. 

They should have sued the renovation surgeon for malpractice.

Our room in particular was a real treat.  Upon entering, the bathroom was immediately, and I mean immediately inside the door.  Like when you showered, the guy across the hall could hand you the soap.  

The bedroom?  Across the window-filled "living room" and up a stair.  Wow, wasn't that convenient.  So they want me to break my other foot in the middle of the night and provide a show for the masses of people who filled the courtyard outside every single moment of the day and night.  Darn, and me without my g-string and feather boa.

But back to the bathroom.  Sink, toilet, tub.  That's it.  All in a row.  If I was in there getting ready, I had to step into the tub in order for Tim to open the door and grab whatever he might need.  You could shampoo your hair in the shower while applying make-up at the sink.  We had to keep the towels outside on a chair in the living room if we didn't want them to get wet, and that shower curtain managed to make it to at least third base every time you took a shower.

If this was a renovation, I shudder to think what the original rooms looked like.  A bucket of water by the door and a chamber pot next to the bed?

Next time we want to stay someplace "special", I think I am just going to stay home and order take-out.

Showtime!

Rose is a great travelling companion.  She provides hours of entertainment...without meaning to.

On our recent trip to Canada, Tim, Rose and I took the train from Montreal to Quebec, about a three hour trip.  Somehow, Rose and I began talking about Les Miserables.  (All the French accents and second-hand smoke must have addled our brains and lured us away from Candy Crush-- Hey, I know.  Let's sit and talk about depressing movies--Terms of Endearment?  No, only one person dies there. Beaches?  Nah.  Only one song came out of that one.  Les Mis?  Perfect!!!  Lots of death and lots of songs about death.  Yeah.  That'll make three hours go by quickly.)

***Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the play or movie and think that something called Les Miserables is going to have a happy ending, you probably shouldn't watch Old Yeller, Bambi or most other Disney movies involving animals either.  So.  Much.  Death.

Many years ago, Rose and her mom had gone to see the play. 

"How'd you like it?" Tim and I asked afterwards.

"Um.  It was ....good."

"Good?"  Just good?  Didn't you think the ending was so amazing and sad?"

"Not really."

"OMG!  Don't you have a heart?  Everyone dies!!!  How is that not sad?"

"What do you mean, everyone dies?"

"Well, they get sick, shot, blown up, jump off a bridge.  You know...die."

"No.  Only the one woman dies.   Wait.  Who jumps off a bridge?"

"What do you mean, 'who jumps off a bridge?'  What'd you do, sleep through the second half?"

"Second half???  There was a second half?  Didn't it end with a barricade and a really big song where they wave a flag?"

"Yeah.  The flag song was called the end of Act I!!!"

Silence.

"Oh no you didn't.  Please tell me you didn't leave halfway through the show."

"Well, it was over two hours!  How were we supposed to know there was a second half?"

Gee, that is a puzzler.  Didn't you think it was a little odd that nobody else left the theater?  Did you maybe think they were hanging around waiting for autographs?  Hmmm if only there was some way of getting information about the play you were going to see.  You know, a book where they could maybe list the songs, tell you how many acts, give you information about the actors.  Somebody should really invent something like that.

So now, twenty-five years later, I offered Rose my ipad to watch Les Mis and find out who jumped off a bridge (because, really, doesn't everyone have Les Mis on their ipad?).  She popped in her earbuds and that's when the real show began.

"Oh no!,"  she burst out, "That's awful!"

Um, inside voice, Rose.  A few fellow passengers turned their heads.

"No! No!" she bellowed at Hugh Jackman, totally oblivious to the fact that she was louder than the actual French Revolution.

Being a true friend and big help, I, naturally, convulsed in my seat, hysterical with laughter and let her continue.

"Whuuuhhhh.  Oh God!"

"What." she shouted, finally catching sight of my now-purple face.  "Do you want to watch too?"

By now, people four cars away were probably convinced someone was either being murdered or having really kinky sex in the restroom.

Trying to catch my breath, I motioned to her to take the earbuds out.

"Oh.  Can you hear this?" she mercifully popped one out.

Um, no.  Thankfully I cannot hear Russell Crowe mangle the songs because through the magic of technology, that wire is transmitting the sound only to you.  You, on the other hand, are shouting louder than a game show contestant trying to win the all-expense-paid trip for two to Dollywood.

"Oh, was I talking out loud?  Why didn't you tell me?"

Why? Because I was enjoying the show.

Close Encounters of The Embarrssing Kind

Checklist for vacation:
                                   passport --check
                                   toothbrush and mini-toothpaste -- check
                                   large sunscreen --check
                                   extra large bag of embarrassment --check

As we got ready to go on vacation last week, I couldn't help but think of the preparation for last year's vacation.

We had booked a safari-- photo.  It's bad enough that the dog looks at me accusingly when I accidentally step on her.  Shooting something?  That kind of guilt I don't need-- and I was running around to all the "outdoor" stores trying to gear up for our adventure.  (Outdoor gear to me has always meant wedge sandals as opposed to 3-inch heels.  Who knew there was a whole world out there of zip-off pant legs and vented shirts!)

Somewhere between REI and LL Bean, I decided that none of my present jammies would do ( you know, for the nightly fashion show in front of the lions), and so I headed to the real stores at the mall.  Unfortunately, trying to find light-weight PJs in October is like trying to find a bathing suit in July or a winter coat in January.  Just.  Not.  Happening.

Except at Vickie's (aka Victoria's Secret, but she and I are on a first-name basis).  God bless their little, "Damn the torpedoes, we sell cotton in winter" hearts.  There, where an inch of lace and two rubber bands worth of elastic can make up a whole trousseau, it is always summer.

Mission accomplished, I was zipping through the mall, bright pink bag dangling conspicuously from my arm (okay, there may have been a dozen few other bags as well--girl cannot live on safari clothes alone-- when I ran into the wife of one of my husband's co-workers, teenage daughter in tow.

"So, your trip is coming up?"

"Yes.  Just grabbing a few last minute items that I need."

At this point, I was blissfully unaware that the Vickie's bag was front and center shouting, "Woo Hoo!!!  Paaar-taaay in Africa!  Let's give those elephants something to really remember!"

Aaand it kept getting better.

"You must be excited."

"I am.  Tim is really looking forward to it too.  Work has been so crazy lately; he needs to get away, relax and have a good time."

"I know what you mean.  The stress can really build up."

"Yes, I'm hoping all Tim's stress will be all worked out by the time we get back."

It was somewhere about halfway through that sentence that I realized the teenage daughter was not really paying attention to us, she was  instead following the neon pink bag like a FOX News reporter follows a presidential candidate.

Now, at this point, I had two options:

A. Explain the bag, which would have gone something like this:
No, no.  The brown bags with the uglier-than-orthopedic footwear is what I meant by preparing for the trip.  Honest.  Look...I have enough khaki here to camouflage Star magazine's 10 Worst Beach Bodies!  I only go to Vickie's for the cotton.
                                                                  or 

B. Ignore the fact that I had just basically told this woman and her daughter that Tim and I were going to make 50 Shades of Gray look like a Mother Goose fairy tale.  I could already hear the conversation when they got home:
     --Well, Tim is going to be really  relaxed when he gets back from vacation.
     --Oh, yeah?
     -- Oh yeah.  Like 'have the neighbors call the police because they think someone is being murdered' relaxed.  Like 'complete all positions in the Kama Sutra: check' relaxed.
    --Oh.  Yeah.  (sound of speed dial being hit on phone)

I went with option B.  Sigh.

My Hero

Tim and I love to walk.  Rain or shine, hot or cold, we walk.  At home, on vacation, visiting family or friends, we walk.

So when we were away for the weekend awhile back with some friends of ours, the four of us went out for...a walk.

It started out nicely, strolling through a neighborhood much like ours--wide streets, no sidewalks, houses far apart, lots of trees and other green stuff.  "The country" as Rose likes to call it.

As we approached this one house, we noticed some dogs in the yard.  Three dogs to be exact.  Three really big dogs, who, when they spotted us, all went on high alert and began barking, and not in a "goody, goody, we love people" sort of way.  More like in a "Ready boys?  Let's get'em" sort of way.

But since they were at the top of a really really long driveway, and the owner was out in the yard, we weren't too worried.  Deciding to err on the side of caution though, we shifted over to the far side of the street.  Which only ticked off the dogs more.

Suddenly, as though someone had shouted, "Release the hounds!", 8000 pounds of Cujo and company came racing down the driveway, barking, growling and snapping like they had just spotted the fox...and it was us.

At first, we didn't panic, thinking that surely they would stop once they reached their property line.  Surely they were trained, or there was one of those invisible fences, or...something, anything to save us from the jaws of death headed our way.

Time slowed down as we watched, horrified, while they seemed to be gaining speed as they neared the end of the driveway, instead of slowing down into a nice, non-threatening trot.

Pieces of Discovery Channel shows began flashing through my mind.  Shark Week, Hogs Gone Wild, Man vs. Wild, those guys who live in a swamp.  There had to be some useful bit of survival information that applied here.  Why oh why hadn't I paid more attention, maybe Tivo or DVR'd it, taken some notes  when I had the chance.

What did they say to do?  Climb a tree, cover your head, swim fast, get under a table, carry a taser?  I couldn't think.

"Stand still,"  someone said.  "Don't run."

Yeah.  Okay.  The small part of my brain that wasn't running around screaming, "We're all going to die!" knew that that is what the so-called "experts" say, but when you are looking death in the jowls, that advice seems, what is the word I'm looking for?  Oh yeah.  STUPID.  Sure, I'll just stand here and do nothing while the Hounds of the Baskervilles gnaw on my leg and rip off my arm.

Of course, the thought did cross my mind though that Tim was on my left, between me and Jaws, so maybe I had time to shimmy up a tree after all.

As we all stood there, petrified, a miraculous thing happened.  The dogs skidded to a sudden halt at the edge of the driveway...or at least two of them did.

The third slowed down and looked over his shoulder at the other two like, "Come on, we can do this.  What're you wimps stopping there for?  Look.  It's a four course meal and they're just standing there waiting to be eaten.  Those fools have clearly fallen for the old "don't move" slogan our PR people put out.  Saps.  They should have run for their lives when they had the chance.

He then flew out into the road and headed straight for Tim, teeth snapping, spittle flying, ears pinned back.  Hitchcock couldn't have come up with anything more terrifying.  This dog made his birds look like they belonged in a Disney movie designing dresses and sweeping out the attic.

Tim apparently felt the same way, because the next thing I knew, he had completely discarded the common "don't move" wisdom and put a shield between himself and the dog.  A human shield.  Me.

One minute, he was on my left facing down The Beast.  The next, he was waaay far on the other side of me.  Wow. Somebodies fight or flight instinct kicked in.  Way to go Galahad.

Before I could shove him in front of me once more though, the dog seemed to tire of the "terrorize the people" game he'd been playing, and with a final snap of teeth that really needed to be filed down, or pulled, he trotted off back to his buddies, tail in the air, chest all puffed out, patting himself on the back for a job well done.

Tim, of course, denies his actions to this day, and when we were once again "threatened" by a vicious monster a few weeks later as we walked around our neighborhood, he made a point of putting me behind him to alone bear the brunt of the deadly attack.

"Gee," I quipped, peering over his shoulder at the fearsome monster bearing down on us, "what was your first clue we were in danger again?  Was it the way the poodle was wagging his tail as he ran over, or the slobbering kisses he's giving you?"

"You never know what will happen when a dog is charging," Tim defended himself, scratching "killer" behind the ear.  "I didn't want you to get bitten."

My hero.

The Invisible Woman

Last year, Tim and I spent a weekend at a very nice, small inn/resort where the staff makes an effort to learn your name.  Or at least Tim's name.  Mine, not so much.

At first, I didn't notice that I wasn't there.  After all, Tim is the one who made the dinner reservations, selected the wine, paid for the meals.  He also likes his food prepared very simply, so he was always rearranging the menu items, which I'm sure made him stand out in the the staffs' minds.

"Welcome, Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd say as we sat down.  "What would you like?"

"What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd offer.  "Mr. Sinclair, can we get you anything else?"

It was kind of like being married to Norm on Cheers.  What was her name, Vera?

By the end of the weekend, I expected to hear them shout, "Tim!" when we entered a room, and have his drink ready before his bottom hit the chair. 

Gradually, I noticed that he got the big meet and greet, and I got.....nothing.  There was the hanging on his every word as though he was Einstein explaining relativity for dummies. There were the blank stares I encountered when I tried to alert them to the fact that there was a Mrs. Sinclair.  There was the subtle way the waiter stood with his back toward me when taking our orders.

Tim, naturally, was in complete denial, even as I transitioned from solid, to transparent to totally invisible.

The staff would rush up as we entered the lobby, concern etched into their faces.  "Mr. Sinclair, are you aware that there is some strange woman following you?"  they'd ask, casting dark looks my way.  "What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair?"  It only got worse as the weekend went on. 

"Is this woman bothering you, Mr. Sinclair?"  I could hear the unspoken question when I dared to sit at his table our final night there.  "Would you like us to call security?  We can have her removed.  No trouble at all.  Now, what would you like to eat, Mr. Sinclair?"

Umm.  Helloooo.  I'm his wife.  See the ring?  I would waggle my finger at them.  Sometimes it actually was my ring finger that I put up.

Finally though, the weekend was over, and Tim once again had to acknowledge that he had a wife.

A few months later, we had the opportunity to go back to the inn, this time with another couple who clearly thought my  stories were an exaggeration of the facts.  Until we got there.

"Welcome back, Mr. Sinclair," the woman at reception gushed as we checked in.

"Ahem,"  I cleared my throat.

"Be with you in a moment, ma'am.  Please step back until we finish with Mr. Sinclair, our favorite guest of all time, and the handsomest man on the planet."

Well, okay, maybe I exaggerate a little.  They didn't actually say that he was handsome.

But seriously, as skeptical as they were at first, eventually, our friends began to realize that I had been telling the truth.  And worse, my disease was contagious.  They were becoming invisible too.

"Afternoon, Mr. Sinclair," the staff greeted the four of us as we headed out for a walk.

I arched my brow at our friends.  "See?"  I silently asked.

They dismissed it as Tim simply being the first one out the door.

"Wine, Mr. Sinclair?"  the bartender asked whipping out a nice bottle of white to present to Tim with a flourish, as the four of us sat down for a pre-dinner drink.

I arched both brows, and confiscated Tim's glass since it was the only way I was going to get a drink without stomping my own grapes.  The other two were on their own.  From the slightly dazed looks on their faces though, they were beginning to come around to my side as they faded from view.

Tim, of course, protested vociferously that this was all in our collective imagination.  He insisted he was treated no differently than the rest of us peons.

But the clincher came when we sat down to dinner.

"Mr. Sinclair, I don't know who these people are that have somehow managed to sit at your table, but what would you like to eat?  You usually get the fish.  Shall we prepare it with a side of seasonal vegetables?  And I know you don't do bread, so I won't bring over the basket.  Also, here is a bottle of sparkling water which I know is your favorite.  Now, can I get you anything else?"

Somehow the waiter managed to avoid eye contact with any of the rest of us during his spiel, and successfully insert himself between the three of us and Tim by the time he was finished.

By now  though, it was clear to our friends that they had suffered my fate and ceased to exist.  They sat, mouths agape as reality sunk in.

Satisfied that my point had been made, I leaned past the waiter as he hovered over Tim, just in case "Mr. Sinclair" should need anything like an extra napkin, refill on his drink, more salad dressing, his chin wiped, to be burped.

"Perhaps you could ask him, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if the people with Mr. Sinclair might actually get a little something to eat and drink too?"

Tim finally had the grace to at least look a little chagrined.  Not that that changed anything until after we checked out.  The three of us and Mr. Sinclair.

Suit Up

Last week, we were in the Bahamas where I had an unfortunate incident involving my bathing suit and my sunblock.  Apparently, the higher the SPF, the more corrosive the lotion.  Who knew?

It actually ate my suit, which makes me sooo happy that I have been slathering it on my skin for the last umpteen years.  Hmm, so I guess I can either opt for skin cancer or having the top six layers of my skin dissolved by helioplex.  Great.

When the (new) lotion began attacking suit number two, I figured it was time to either look into purchasing a new suit or find a nude beach.

Finding a bathing suit in the Bahamas;  how long could that take?  Two, three minutes?

Yeah.  Right.  If you have the ability to tan, are sixteen and weigh sixteen pounds and/or love bling, you're in luck.  Otherwise, not so much.

I began at the hotel gift shop.  Where they had a huge selection.  Four.  Three of which could have been sewn together and still not have made a large enough suit to cover what needed to be covered.  The fourth suit was a one-piece;  however, it looked as though it had been designed by a five year old who had been left unattended with a Bedazzler and a stack of Disney princess movies.

So we walked down the street to the little shopping area where I felt sure I would find a suit.  And I did.  Lors and lots.  Of  itsy bitsy teenie weenie bikinis.

I get that for most people, the purpose of lying on the beach is to get a deep, dark tan with as few tan lines as possible.  More power to them.  They are fortunate enough to have shades of beige and brown among their skin color choices. 

I, on the other hand, have two choices:  white and red.  For me, the purpose of lying on the beach is to see  if I can get someone to bring me many frozen drinks with little umbrellas in them to help me forget that I am baking in the sun under an umbrella, awning, three towels and a big hat.  I need SPF 60 just to make it from my room to the chair without resembling a lobster.

So when it comes to swimsuit style, more fabric is definitely the way for me to go in terms of sun protection.  Actually, more fabric is pretty much the way for me to go regardless.  At my age, there are just some things that are better left to the imagination...or left to someone with a severe astigmatism who has lost their glasses.  Something that I could fold up and stuff in my pocket with room left over for my wallet, keys, cell phone, ipod, tissues and make-up was not going to cut it.

My next stop was a neighboring hotel where they have a shopping arcade.

Bingo!  I found a suit right away, and it was on sale.  Oh lucky day.  So it was bright orange and I would look like a traffic cone, but at least it was made with more fabric than is in a Barbie outfit.  So it was four sizes too big.  Wait.  Surely, there must be other sizes or colors.  Frantically, I pawed through the racks.

How about yellow, and I could look like Big Bird, or bright green and I could be a beanstalk?  Nope.  All they had was the one orange suit and then lots of bikinis and a few one-piece suits that glittered so much I would feel like the mirror-ball trophy on Dancing With The Stars.

Finally realizing that I was going to have to bite the bullet and go into Nassau, we hopped a cab and decided to make a day of it.  And it did take pretty much all day.

Shop after shop, it was the same.  Suits that were made for sun worshippers or someone with a lot fewer inhibitions than I have.

No, I did not want to look like a french maid, cowgirl or pole dancer.  Seriously, do you have a lot of call for this stuff?  Are people flocking to your store to buy something that when you get it wet is going to look more like body paint and less like something you can actually swim in?

And what's up with the big gold medallions and rings and decorative chunks of metal replacing good old-fashioned ties and straps?  I wasn't aware that Mr. T was competing against Esther Williams in the swimwear business.

Not that there is anything wrong with a little style and flair, but how about when all that metal heats up in the sun?  That's gotta feel good.  Sort of like a cow at branding time.  I can just imagine hopping out of my suit in the middle of the beach as the neckline begins to glow red hot.

And didn't I read somewhere that sharks were attracted to shiny things?  What sick designer thought it would be a good idea to wear something that would attract a predator?  Perhaps they also have a line of clothing made of raw meat for people who go on safari, or one made of fresh sheepskin for those who like to go hiking in wolf country.  Pass.

And so, at the end of the day, I left empty handed but with my modesty and skin intact.  We did make one final stop though for a bottle of Woolite so that I could help my two remaining suits survive our vacation. 

It's A Long Way To Tipperary...And Twice As Far To Our Room

Despite my many travels, I had never been to Hawaii. It always seemed a little far to go just for some palm trees and a beach. But after a mere twelve hours in the air, we landed in paradise...and then found we were not done traveling.

Upon checking in to our hotel, we were escorted to our room on the fourth floor by the bellman who explained that since the hotel was built on a hill, we had actually checked in on the sixth floor and had to go down to get to our room

On the way, we passed the bar, one restaurant, the concierge, the lounge, shopping arcade, a real estate operation and the gym. I've been in towns that were smaller.

We made all the usual chit-chat: where are you from? How long are you staying? Let me tell you about the hotel, give you the unabridged history of Hawaii and explain, in detail, nuclear physics. And all that was just until we got to the elevator.

Once on the fourth floor, we started down the hallway toward our room which was apparently located somewhere on the opposite side of the island, or in Siberia. By the time we came to the next hallway, we had covered politics, religion, literature and conducted an in-depth analysis and comparison of Hawaii 5-0 and Magnum PI. Somewhere around the halfway mark, I began wondering when they had built the bridge over to California that we were apparently on.

At the end of the next hallway, our room was still nowhere to be seen and we had moved on to exchanging fondest childhood memories, complete medical histories and family trees going back to the Norman Conquest with the bellman, who was now our best friend since we had known him longer than pretty much anybody else we had ever met, including family members.

As we turned down the third (or was it fourth) hallway, I began looking for the complimentary shuttle bus or hoped that I could hail a passing cab or maybe even flag down an ambulance to see if they could administer some oxygen.

Meanwhile, Tim, who was bringing up the rear in our happy little parade, was looking like a very grumpy bear who had been prodded out of hibernation somewhere in about mid-January and muttering dire imprecations involving our travel agent, the woman at the check-in desk and me who was somehow to blame for the fact that he was developing a blister on his left foot and some kind of "-itis" in his knee/ankle/hip.

Finally, before we had to resort to the Donner party buffet special, we arrived at our room where we were given the grand tour and had our passports stamped.

Unfortunately, although we had checked in at breakfast, it was now dinnertime and the restaurants were all back on the other side of reception, two thousand or so miles away. Arming ourselves with packs of trail mix I had taken from the plane (which is what passes for a meal nowadays), we began the loooong trek back to civilization, leaving a trail of peanuts, pretzels and sesame sticks to help us find our way back.

And so it went for the next five days, except the whole being on a hill thing added to the degree of difficulty.

We found that if we stayed on the fourth floor, we eventually came to the spa after only a two hour hike where there was an exit to the top level of the three-level pool...after you walked down a flight of steps, took the path through the garden, marched over hill and dale and followed the yellow brick road.

Or, we could take the elevator that was only a one hour jaunt away to the first floor and come out by the kiddie pool and jungle gym. Then we just had to walk around the entire circumference of the seventy-two acre pool to get towels and a seat (I thought Texas was the state where everything was supposed to be big.).

And if we wanted to go to the beach? Hey, no problem. We just slipped into our hiking boots, packed a lunch and two snacks, headed out past the pool, the one restaurant, the ancient Hawaiian burial grounds, headed for the first star on the left and then went straight on till morning.

But the good news here was that the return trip was uphill all the way, so that by the time we got back to the room, our suits had dried completely and the thirty pounds of sand that clung to various body parts had done a fabulous job of exfoliating things that weren't ever meant to see a loofah and it had dried to the consistency of hardened concrete! Jackpot!

All in all, it really cut down on the number of trips we made back and forth. Hmmm. Forgot the sunscreen? Let's see...make the trip all the way back to the room or risk skin cancer and third degree burns. Wait a minute, I'm thinking. Yeah. I'm thinking that by the time I make the trip, the sun won't even be out anymore.

Dinner reservations at eight? Better head out from the beach somewhere around, oh say, noon After all, we'd have to leave the room by five just to make it to the lobby by 7:59.

The upside of it all though was that we got plenty of exercise without ever going to the gym. Not that we would have been able to get there anyway before coming back home once you factored in the travel time involved.

The Birds and the Bees

This year for vacation, Tim and I went to Hawaii. The island, the people, the beaches, I loved. The birds and the bees I could have done without.

First of all, there are like seven hundred million of those tiny, little sparrows per square inch, and they all want whatever you are eating. Since most of the restaurants there tend to be "open air", mealtime is like being an extra in a Hitchcock movie.

One of the first nights there, we noticed a mist being sprayed every couple of minutes from the trees above the restaurant. A cooling water vapor to help customers beat the heat? Nope. Insect spray to protect from mosquito bites? Uh uh. Grapeseed extract to keep the birds away. Who knew that birds hated grapes? Not the birds.

Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell them that they were supposed to be repelled by it because they pretty much soared right through the spray and flocked to the restaurant like K-Mart shoppers to a blue light special on toilet paper in aisle three.

From our first morning at breakfast where we decided to have the buffet, we had to guard every morsel that we put in out mouths from the birds. Leaving our unattended coffee on the table, we wandered off to graze. Fresh pineapple? Pineapple danish? Pineapple juice? Maybe the papaya or hey, pineapple/papaya juice? Decisions, decisions.

Returning to the table, we were greeted by fifteen dozen birds or so literally lining the table and chairs all eagerly peeping and craning their little birdy necks to see what yummy treat we had brought for them. While Tim grabbed his napkin and charged the table like a marine hitting the beach at Normandy, I anxiously peered into my coffee cup, hoping none of the little rascals had decided to use it as a hot tub, while simultaneously wondering if bird poop sinks or floats.

The following mornings, Tim kept requesting a table "in the back away from the birds." Yeah. Because the invisible force field running through the middle of the restaurant guaranteed they couldn't get past the first few rows of tables. Right.

I believe it was the third day where one persistent little fellow landed at our table and hopped over to me with a definite, "you gonna finish that muffin?" gleam in his eye.

Tim waved his Wall Street Journal at him. He flipped Tim off. Tim stood up and shook his napkin at him. The bird rose in the air, circled the table once, landed in exactly the same spot and favored Tim with a "Oh please. Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?" look.
Tim grabbed the newspaper again, and made a few matador-like moves before jabbing it at the bird like a sword. My hero. The bird laughed and edged closer to my plate.

Before Tim could go all Don Quixote on him though, the people next to us left, abandoning an entire half of a cinnamon roll which must have looked better than my muffin, or at least been easier pickings. I swear, though, that as I saw him rise into the air, he extended the middle toe of his foot toward Tim.

All in all, birds are so much cuter when they are animated and helping some mice make a ball gown.

As bad as they were though, they were nothing compared to the bees. They are definitely cuter when they are animated, not to mention a lot less painful.

About halfway through our trip, we had dinner at a romantic, candlelit restaurant on a beautiful, private beach overlooking the ocean. It was perfect, and I'm sure I would have really enjoyed it had I not spent a good portion of the time in too much pain to care about such trivial things as moonlight and roses.

Arriving early, we were escorted to the bar to wait for our table. No sooner had we sat down then I felt a little prickle on my back. Thinking it was the elastic gather from my dress, I reached back and gave it a tug only to feel a BIG prickle.

"I think I've been stung," I gasped to Tim.

"What? Where?" He could see nothing on the back of my dress.

The line of fire moving down my side convinced me I was right, and I headed for the nearest restroom. Fortunately, there only seemed to be one other person in a stall, so I eased the one side of my dress down to see and angry red mark with a wicked-looking stinger protruding from its center. So much for romance.

As I stood there trying in vain to reach it, the bee plopped out of my top and into the sink. I'm sure the older woman coming out of the stall was a bit disconcerted to find a half-dressed woman leaning over the sink yelling, "Die, you miserable cur! Die!", but all she said was, "You should get some Benadryl" before tottering off.

Well, and thanks for all your help. No, no. Don't worry about the stinger the size of a harpoon sticking out of my back, pumping poison through my system. Clearly, your third martini is calling you. I'll be fine.

Clutching my back which was now swelling up like the Elephant Man, I stumbled back out to the bar and begged Tim to order me a really large drink, because I was so not having him pull out the stinger without some anesthesia. The bartender offered to let us use the manager's office for the operation and gave us some gel to rub on the spot. I would rather had been offered a second martini.

It was the birds though that got the last laugh. On our final night there, we had dinner at a charming little restaurant in yet another beautiful, romantic setting. Afterwards, we strolled onto a bridge overlooking a koi pond and watched the fish lazily swim back and forth.

"Look," Tim said, "there's a perfect spider web stretching across the pond, glistening."

"Where?" I strained to see it (although why either one of us thought I wanted to see a giant spider web I'm still puzzling out.)

"Right there," He pointed.

Unable to see it from where I was standing, I crossed to the opposite side of him, leaned forward over the railing, and put my hands down in a nice, fresh pile of bird poop!

Yeah. Gotta love those birds and bees.

Vacation Fun

I have always been pretty lucky when it comes to travel.

On our Alaskan cruise when things got really rough and people were hanging over the side of the ship, I was bellying up to the midnight buffet. In Morocco when others were popping immodium like candy, I was actually eating candy. At the Great Barrier Reef when the crocodile showed up on the beach for a little luncheon snack, I was on the other side of the beach snacking on lunch.

Last month though, my luck started to run out.

On vacation in Grand Cayman, I was the only one who wanted to go to Stingray City. Every time I tried to bring it up, Tim and Rose would hold up their hands and say,"Steve Irwin." (crocodile hunter guy)

Okay, how about snorkeling at the lagoon? "Steve Irwin"

Glass bottom boat? Even they couldn't use Steve Irwin as an excuse there. "Three hours sucked out of our day to watch fish? Have fun. Be sure to take lots of pictures." Party poopers.

And so we spent our days lounging on the beach and lolling in the surf (not that I'm complaining, mind you.).

Until day two, that is, when the fish showed up.

At first, there were one or two white fish (about six inches long) swimming past us in the crystal clear water. Okay, not the most comfortable feeling when you don't know a trout from a great white, but no one else seemed to be panicking so...

And then, suddenly, there were more. Like three dozen. All surrounding us. Well, mostly me. Just hovering and staring and making little fish bubbles. I think they thought I was one of them, only bigger. Maybe a giant albino white fish goddess and they had come to worship.

Now we were feeling very uncomfortable. In a heartbeat, Rose threw Tim in front of her like a living shield and quickly backed away toward the shore leaving me to the mercy of the swarm. Thanks. (Actually, the only reason I didn't do the same thing was because she beat me to it.)

As their leader, I was fortunately able to command them to disperse peacefully, but anytime I stood still for longer than a minute the rest of the week, there they were again (and me without my self-tanner) staring and bubbling.

But at least they were harmless. Unlike the stingray who showed up days three through seven. If Mohammed won't got to the mountain...

This fellow decided that he needed to bond with us too.

"Watch out!" one of the other beachgoeers warned us that first afternoon. "There's a ray headed toward you!" Huh?

We zigged, he zagged. We ended up a lot closer than we wanted to be. He glided and twitched his tail.

Suddenly, I was not so anxious to visit with a stingray. Eventually, he settled down and buried himself in the sand, so that all you could see were his eyes and the tip of his very long, very barbed tail. Not reassuring.

I spent the rest of the week jumping at every rock or piece of driftwood on the ocean floor, waiting for his daily glide-by and tail twitch.

Sea life if sooo much cuter in a Disney movie when they are all singing and playing seashells like drums.

And them came the piece de resistance.

Bobbing about happily in six feet or so of water (I was not going to step on Mr. Ray.), I kicked Tim accidentally.

Even as I apologized, my brain was registering the fact that he was on my right, but I had definitely kicked something on my left. Hmmm. Before I could figure out how this was possible, Rose shrieked, "Hey, a really big fish just came toward me."

And as Tim scoffed at her and chided me for not knowing the difference between flesh and blood and a rock (yeah, like they feel the same. Puh-leeze. How dumb does he think I am?), a guy a few feet away yelled, "Barracuda!" and pointed towards us (Hah! I knew it wasn't a rock!).

As we hastened toward shore in a recreation of the fourth of July shark scene in Jaws, we looked and, sure enough, there it was. A nice, big, three-foot long barracuda. Staring and chomping some wicked-looking teeth.

Like Mr. Ray, Barry visited us daily, staring and chomping, and like with the white fish, Tim once again became a human shield (this time it was me, and I not only got in back of him, I climbed him like a tree - I did not want to become lunch!). Although Barry didn't seem to hold a grudge against me for kicking him, I wasn't taking any chances. When he showed up for his daily visit, I got out.

Eventually, our fun in the sun ended and we came back home to the states and headed for Denver.

Ahh. Good old Denver. 5,280 feet above sea level. 5,280 feet above stingrays and barracudas. 5,280 minutes (four days) of altitude sickness.

Headache, nausea, upset stomach, dizziness, sleepiness. The first two days there, all I saw were the four walls of our hotel room. Good thing I brought my camera and bought a guide book and map. I got misty-eyed just thinking of Barry and Mr. Ray.

Drink lots of water, the room service waiter told me. Drink lots of water the housekeeping staff told me. Drink lots of water Tim told me. Drink lots of water everyone told me. So I did. And it helped. Then, I only had headache, dizziness and 5,280 trips a day to the restroom. Not fun.

Eventually, I got the symptoms down to a few hours of dizziness a day and only 3,000 trips to the bathroom. And then it was time to go home.

Thank God. This travel stuff was killing me.

Getting There Is Not Half the Fun

Over the last few weeks, I've logged a lot of air miles. About 15,000 to be exact (sort of). First up, our trip to the Bahamas via Miami.

I'm pretty sure the pioneers crossed the plains in their covered wagons in less time and with less aggravation. Couple hundred Dakota warriors coming at you with bows and arrows? Punishing heat, choking dust, having to hunt for what little food there is? Don't make me laugh.

At least they didn't have to get up before 3am to be at the airport by 4am for a 6am flight to sit for three hours at another airport in Miami to then fly another two hours to stand in a customs line for one hour only to finally, finally get to the hotel to be told that the room wouldn't be ready for another three hours. Hey, no problem, we'll just hang around the pool in our grungy, travel-rumpled clothes and sweat. No, really. It'll be a fun way to kick off the vacation.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I forgot to mention the absolute ball we had checking in and boarding our flight.

Because it was an international flight, we couldn't do curbside check-in where there were only a dozen people in line. Oh no, we had to go inside with the rest of the four thousand half-asleep people and jostle for position in the line, er lines, at the counters.

American Airlines apparently decided it would be a real hoot to watch everyone try to form lines for the machines with no roped-off maze, no arrows, no signs, not even a measly trail of breadcrumbs for help. It was like trying to find a parking space at the mall two days before Christmas with a final "everything-must-go" blowout sale in progress. It can be done, but it isn't pretty.

Then, you had to drag your bags over to a separate counter for tags which necessitated joining yet another unruly line with even more unruly people. One woman finally appointed herself crossing guard and tried to direct the flow. "This side is baggage check-in, that side is for ticketing. There are three windows open, but only one line." Yeah. She was real popular. It's never wise to tick off a sleep-deprived mob.

But, we finally did make it to the third and final line-- the baggage drop-off line (well, the final line in the checking-in process, not the final, final line. We still had two more lines to go through before that happy event.) We added our bags to the mountain of luggage that continued to grow at an alarming rate since there was only one person putting it on the conveyor belt (Gee-- a Friday in August. Perhaps the airline could have looked into their crystal ball and foreseen that there might have been just a few people going on vacation?), and sprinted for the security line.

By some miracle, we made it to the gate as the plane was boarding and even managed to grab a cup of coffee from one of the stands (no actual food, it was apparently too early to be selling food. Wouldn't want to interrupt anyone's beauty sleep by having them actually be at the airport early when only ninety-seven flights were leaving with no food aboard).

The flight crew evidently didn't realize (or care) that they were dealing with sleep-deprived, hungry, teensy bit cranky people and greeted us with a twenty minute diatribe on the do's and don't's of air travel.

"You must sit down quickly. Do not try to put things into the overhead and hold up the line. Step out of the aisle and wait until their is a break in the line to do so. You must slide your bag in wheels first. If you have two bags, you must put one under the seat in front of you. If you are in a bulkhead seat, you may not have a bag, a purse, a briefcase, a newspaper, a drink, etc. at your seat. It must all be stowed in the bins above. You must fasten your seat belts and leave them fastened even when the captain has turned off the sign. You may not use the lavatory up front if you are in coach. You must use the ones in the rear of the plane."

Well, good morning to you too. Does anyone else remember the days when they actually welcomed you aboard and tried to make you forget that you'd just been herded like cattle and crammed into your six square inches of space like a sardine?

By the time they finished this speech, plus the required, "we'll be flying at an altitude of..." and "Join our sky miles credit card program..." (yeah, like that'll happen), we were getting ready to land. So much for the in-flight entertainment.

Getting off the plane, we made a beeline for the two food places open in the terminal where we had a choice of pizza or hot dogs. Ahhh. Breakfast of champions.

I couldn't wait for the flight back.

Of Rocks and Strings and Sealing Wax and Other Fancy Stuff

The other night at dinner, my niece and I were discussing the plot of a book which involved a small town museum, and I was reminded of the one my mother and I visited on our Alaskan cruise.

Pulling into port on that fine July morning, we reviewed our options. We could stay aboard ship and relax in the spa, then maybe pop into the casino for an enjoyable hour or so, we could visit the town and spend time exploring the cozy little shops and restaurants, or we could hike up the road to petroglyph beach to view actual prehistoric rock carvings.

Since it was a lovely thirty-five degrees and raining, we, of course, elected to go with option number three.

Shrugging our fleece-lined coats on over every other item of clothing we owned, we set out for the far side of town and the beach.

As we slogged up the mud-drenched road, we encountered a couple of fellow shipmates, and thought to double-check our direction. "Petroglyph beach?" we enquired, peering through the downpour, and pointing up the hill.

Exchanging what they surely thought to be a surreptitious glance, they nodded, "Yes, just keep going up the hill. Oh, and stop at the museum," and hurried past us.

Huh. That didn't seem too encouraging. Had we detected a bit of a smirk?

Gamely, we continued schlepping up the increasingly steep and winding trail, eventually passing a few more poor, drenched souls.

"Petroglyph beach?" we gasped out, feebly raising trembling fingers to point upwards.

"Oh, yes," they responded cheerily (too cheerily), "you're almost there. Be sure and visit the museum on the way too." And they rolled past us back toward civilization.

Okay, they really looked like they were smirking.

But, on we trudged, ever upward (where exactly was this beach, the North Pole?), and, not soon enough, we saw a sign (and by sign, I mean piece of wood nailed to a tree with the word "museum" carved into it) indicating we had arrived at the recommended destination.

Approaching the museum (and by museum, I mean extra-large detached garage buried in the wilderness) we paid our $1 entrance fee and went in.

We were greeted by a chorus line of fifty Barbie dolls in crocheted dresses representing the fifty states. Okay...moving on. There was a dented typewriter from the 1920's, a rusted outboard motor from the 50's and a giant pine cone from the woods.

But wait, there was more. Magazines from the 70's, someones beat-up old shoes and an entire box of assorted buttons and wooden spools that had once held thread.

Yes, those were definitely smirks we had seen.

After picking our way past the displays of moose antlers, rocking chairs without seats and the remains of what used to be aluminum lawn furniture, we decided we had seen enough of the collection (and by collection, I mean stuff they hadn't been able to sell at the community yard sale), and resumed our sojourn to petryoglyph beach.

Upon reaching our final destination and gazing down at the three rocks with fish and circles carved into them (did they say prehistoric or pre-school?) we became nostalgic for the museum's treasures.

Slipping and sliding our way back downhill to the dry comforts of our staterooms, we couldn't resist doing as those before us had done though.

Passing the poor fools straggling up the mountainside, we smiled smug little smiles, nodded encouragingly toward the mountain's peak and suggested they stop by for a visit to the "must-see" town attraction---the museum.

Blah, blah, blah

Recently, a friend and I were talking about our most embarrassing moments (and, believe me, there have been a lot !)

I would have to say, the hands-down winner for me occurred when Tim and I were on vacation (and naturally, it was all his fault. No, really.)

The hotel was fabulous, the room was great, the beach wonderful. Life was bliss. Until day two when I tried to use the hair dryer and Tim tried to use the internet.

The dryer was one of those wall-mounted units, but not the normal kind. This one looked more like a vacuum attachment with its ribbed, (semi) flexible hose and rectangular nozzle. I wasn't sure whether I should dry my hair or hunt for dust bunnies under the bed.

It also had one setting, fry, which not only referred to your hair, but also the skin on your hand holding the dryer. It was enough to make Vidal Sassoon want to shave his head.

Being moderately (okay, okay, obsessively) fond of my hair, not to mention wanting to avoid a trip to the ER for treatment of third degree burns, I made a trip to the drug store where I purchased the only dryer they had. It was about the size of my palm, but sounded like a jet was taking off in the bathroom.

Hmmmm. So my choices were: having a really bad hair day, or going deaf. I started learning sign language.

Tim's internet problem was a much easier fix. He called the front desk and they told him they would send somebody up. Done.

It was when our two solutions collided that my moment occurred.

After a hard day of lounging on the beach and frolicking in the water (well, not so much frolicking as floating and lounging there too -- wouldn't want to expend too much energy), we returned to the room where I hopped into the shower and Tim hopped onto the phone.

As I stood there in my underwear, aiming what amounted to a hand-held police siren or air horn at my head, Tim opened the bathroom door, stuck his head in, and interrupted his call long enough to say, "Blah, blah, blah." He then popped out, shutting the door behind him before I could react.

Now normally, I would just ignore whatever he had to say if it interfered with my beauty regimen. After all, what could possibly be more important than my hair? But, judging from the expression on his face, this had seemed to be a matter of some concern.

Heaving a sigh, I shut off the dryer, flung open the bathroom door and barrelled out into the little hallway snapping, "What did you say?"

And came face to face, or rather face to torso with the tech guy kneeling on the floor who was trying to fix Tim's internet connection problem.

Apparently, "Blah, blah, blah," translated into: "Don't come out of the bathroom unless you want to share way too much personal information with a complete stranger."

The next day, after I was talking to Tim again, we went looking for another hair dryer.

Days of the Iguana

At our hotel in Puerto Rico, there were two big attractions: the ten huge iguanas that live on the grounds and the three hundred retired NFL players who were there for a convention.

Actually, the iguanas were the bigger attraction.

Actually, the iguanas scaring the crap out of the NFL players was the biggest attraction. You can't believe how fast a three hundred plus pound guy can move when startled by a twenty pound, five foot long reptile.

Wednesday afternoon, the pool was jammed, and pretty much every chair was taken. Until the first iguana showed up.

Tim and I spotted him sitting on top of one of the statues poolside. At first, he just sort of blended in and most people didn't realize he was even there.

Then, apparently he got hot and needed to take a quick dip in the pool to cool off. That is when people noticed him. He went in one side and everyone else at that end of the pool went out the other. It was kind of like a scene from Jaws: water churning, legs flying, arms flailing, rafts overturning. All that was missing was the theme music and the harpoon.

By the time he got out and was nonchalantly sitting in a planter happily munching on the flowers, the panic had subsided, testosterone once again reigned supreme and the post-game commentary had begun.

"Did you see the size of that thing?!" "I didn't know they got that big." "They don't bother me." (yeah, right, and that is why you jumped up on your chair) "They're plant-eaters, right?" (until they decide you look tasty) "Man, he was huge!" (yes, I believe we covered that) "He can't hurt you, can he?"

On Thursday, the second guy (even bigger) made an appearance. As a group of us stood on the sidewalk watching him watching us, a woman came barrelling through totally oblivious to the fact that these big, hulking guys were not huddling behind a garbage can to discuss the next play. I don't think I've ever seen anyone jump that high without a trampoline.

The best reaction we ever saw though was the guy in the pool. As his wife reclined on a raft in the near empty pool, he gazed lovingly into her eyes and murmured endearments as he gently propelled her around. Life was beautiful and true love was in the air...

Until the iguana swan between his legs from behind and bobbed up on the opposite side of the raft. Then it was every man for himself. He abandoned that raft like it was the Titanic and he had just gotten the last seat on the lifeboat. Had he been on land, I'm pretty sure he would have set a new record for rushing.

I'm also pretty sure he ended up in divorce court. All because of a cute little iguana who just wanted to frolic in the water.

The Five Stages of Grief

Several thousand years ago, a Greek guy traveled many miles with an important message, then dropped dead. This event gave birth to the word marathon.

Last week, my blackberry traveled many miles to Puerto Rico filled with several important messages, then dropped dead. This event gave birth to a lot of words, most of them having four letters.

At first, I was in denial. I turned it off, then on again. I took out the battery and blew off the imaginary dust. I plucked out the SYM card and blew on that too just for good measure. I gave it to Tim who did all of these things over again.

I moved on to anger. I shook it, hit it and seriously considered chucking it out the window of the car onto the freeway.

From there, I segued into the third stage -- bargaining. I begged, I pleaded, I cajoled. I tried to do a nine day novena in nine minutes. Nada. My blackberry was D.O.A.

Panic began to set in. What if my friends or family needed to reach me that week? What if the alarm went off at the house and the alarm co. needed to get ahold of me (this has happened more than once)? More importantly, what if Pottery Barn was having a big sale or Overstock.com was having a free shipping weekend? Arrrrgh!!!

Tim tried to calm me down, assuring me that we could find a Verizon store somewhere on the island and get help (or maybe he said psychiatric hospital, I wasn't really paying attention to him at this point).

Upon arriving at the hotel, he headed for the registration desk and I beelined it for the concierge, pretty much plowing over anyone too slow to get out of my way.

"Is there a Verizon store nearby?" I gasped out.

The girl gave me a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, no."

I breathed deep and tried again. "Is there one anywhere ?"

"Not on Puerto Rico." She took a slight step backward. Smart girl.

"You have no Verizon store, cart, stand, anything, anywhere or the entire island?" I wanted to make sure I nailed it down to the letter before I took the final plunge off the deep end.

"No. We only have one company that was part of Verizon, but they don't offer Verizon service or help their customers."

Gee, another dysfunctional communications company. What are the odds???

"Is there anywhere you can recommend that I go for help with my blackberry?" I persisted.

"Sorry." No, she wasn't. She was still able to get her e-mails, phone calls and text messages. I, on the other hand, wouldn't be receiving any good luck because I couldn't forward the dancing leprechaun on to eighty-six of my closest friends in the next ten minutes.

Stage four, depression, kicked in and we weren't even checked in yet.

And to make matters worse, Tim had decided to travel light and only brought his blackberry with him. No second or third phone, no laptop. No contact at all with the outside world except for his blackberry. What had he been thinking!!!

One blackberry for the two of us? Right. Like I was ever going to get a crack at it. He would rather give me some other less vital part of him like a kidney or maybe half his brain.

And so, acceptance gradually set in. I visited the business center almost daily, but it wasn't the same. I had to fight for my thirty minutes of computer time with the rest of the other poor blackberryless fools. I would have been better off sticking a message in a bottle and waiting for low tide some days, and I don't even want to address the phone issue.

Tim, meanwhile, chatted away at the pool, the beach, the restaurant. He e-mailed and opened attachments with no time constraints or someone trying to look over his shoulder. He even googled a few times. He took his blackberry everywhere with him (yes, even the bathroom). So much for sharing.

Even now that we are back home and my blackberry is somewhat up and running (Puerto Rico is definitely off our list of vacation spots), I am still not through with the stages of grief. I think I may have found a sixth and seventh that were not on the original list. And every time my blackberry beeps and I get a voice message that was left last Tuesday or Wednesday, I go right back to the beginning and have to start all over again.

Or Not

My sister-in-law gives up sweets every Lent. Forty days of no chocolate, no cake, co cookies, no candy. Personally, I would rather give up something less necessary, like oxygen, for forty days, and I feel confident that Tim would fully support my choice since he would be the one dealing with a sugar-free me. It would not be pretty. Although it couldn't be much worse than this past Easter weekend when I gave up eating...pretty much everything.

It all started Friday morning when I barely had time to cram half of a bagel down my throat before running out the door. Oh well, maybe we'd have an early lunch.

Or not. Lunch turned out to be a plate of tomatoes and mozzarella at 3:00 while we waited for our hotel rooms to be ready. Oh well, dinner was at seven, so I'd get a nice meal then.

Or not. Turns out our reservation was for seven, but our table wasn't actually ready until 8:30. By that time, I'd eaten enough nuts to keep Bonzo happy for a year and drunk enough club soda to float a battleship.

I barely made it through the appetizer, never mind dinner, and to add insult to injury, they brought over a fabulous (complimentary) chocolate dessert that I couldn't even touch. Oh well, things would be better on Saturday.

Or not. Room service forgot half our order and the luscious-looking muffin that I got turned out to be chock-full-o-coconut! Yuck. What kind of sick, twisted person ruins a lovely little muffin with coconut? Seriously, they should have a warning label on the menu: Caution. Muffins may be hazardous to your taste buds. Oh well, I'd get something to eat once we got to the pool.

Or not. Around noon, we ordered water and fruit plates. Forty minutes passed, and so did a lot of waiters with trays of burgers, sandwiches and fries, but the only fruit we saw during that time was the dreaded coconuts hanging from the trees around us, mocking us as they swayed in the breeze.

At 1:25, we finally had to cancel our order and rush off to keep our 1:30 massage appointments. The waiter apologized profusely, offering to have the plates ready when we returned at 3:00.

Or not. The new waiter didn't seem to have any idea who we were or what arrangements had been made, but he assured us that fruit plates would be no problem.

Yeah. We fell for that one before. He had five minutes before we headed to Mickey D's. Maybe there we could get a few measly berries and some melon with our Big Macs.

We did get our fruit, along a side of rain, but dinner was only a few hours away and would be good.

Or not. Oh, the actual food wasn't bad, but the restaurant had an...odor...so that it was sort of like eating in the bottom of an old, wet sneaker. Oh well, Sunday would be better.

Or not. Sunday morning, we decided to go to mass at the church twenty minutes away where my mom was in the choir. Opting to skip the coconut muffins, we decided to grab some breakfast along the way in one of the many little towns or strip malls we would pass.

Unfortunately, it was pouring rain and we missed a turn, so we needed up taking the interstate. Not a lot of places to eat there. Oh well, we'd grab a bite somewhere near the church.

Or not. Turns out it took us twice as long to get there due to the rain, and there wasn't any place near the church. Easter Sunday breakfast turned out to be a pack of peanut butter crackers from my purse and two day old water from the bottle I left in the cup holder.

Fortunately, through all these trials and tribulations, I managed to remain sweet, pleasant and even tempered.

Or not.

I See Naked People

And speaking of things you don't need to see....

Tim has an uncanny ability to see naked people (and find great parking spaces, though fortunately for our car, not at the same time.)

This talent revealed itself early in our marriage when he was in the laundry room of our first apartment building. A young woman wearing a tube top (clearly, we have been married a long time) was standing opposite him shaking her laundry out of its bag and into the washer...a little too vigorously. On about the third shake, the final bit of laundry dropped down, and so did her top.

This sighting was followed a few months later by a rooftop visit to avoid the intense heat in our apartment due to brainless management and a prolonged summer. While trying to catch a breeze, Tim also caught a good look at a guy in his apartment trying to beat the heat another way (apparently, he didn't take into consideration the L-shape of the building or lack of shades when he came up with this little brainstorm).

Someone else who didn't consider building shape was the couple who decided to sleep out on the balcony, naked, because, since the guy had roommates, doing so in his room might have proved embarrassing. (We actually happened to know this guy, so Tim took great delight in calling down and waking them up, then watching the ensuing scramble.)

After we moved out of the apparent nudist colony we were living in, the sightings came less frequently, but they did not stop.

While out at dinner one night, Tim's chair faced a window, which faced an apartment building, which contained a naked couple who owned sheer curtains, but no shades. Needless to say, the woman playing the piano was no competition for Tim's attention compared to the floor show across the way.

And speaking of shows, we used to have neighbors across the street who, well, provided a nightly one. They were a free-spirited couple that, despite living there a few years, still didn't have shades (have none of these people ever heard of Next Day Blinds?!? How about an old sheet or even wax paper? This isn't rocket science!). So when Tim would be coming in late from work, there was a strong possibility that he would catch the second show. (Rated PG 13--according to the neighbors on either side, the late show had an R rating at least)

And then there are the foreign naked people....

Like the time we were on a cruise and mistakenly ended up on a clothing optional beach (I guess the huge billboard behind our chairs should have clued us in, but somehow we missed it and were surprised by all the flesh-colored bathing suits until we realized they were birthday suits.)

Or the time in Paris when we were sitting at a little cafe on the left bank and a guy staying at the small hotel on the opposite corner decided to treat everyone to a strip show from his balcony (He had obviously had too much to drink, and we had not had nearly enough.). There are definitely some things better left to the imagination, like the amount of body waxing someone has had done.)

But, at the beach in Cannes, the naked people got their ultimate revenge on Tim.

It wasn't the lady selling bathing suits on the beach who, in her eagerness to display her wares for Tim, displayed, well, her wares for Tim when she whipped off one suit to put on another.

And it certainly wasn't the eighteen year old Sports Illustrated model who used the beach shower (topless, of course) to wash off all that pesky, clinging sand about three feet from his chair.

No, it was the last day when we were out on the pier and an older woman (and by older, I mean somewhere between ninety and death) was given the chair directly in front of Tim. After setting down her bag, she nonchalantly removed her turquoise one-piece to reveal a bright yellow thong!

As it this was not enough, she then proceeded to arrange her chair, towel, etc. for a good fifteen minutes (or at least until Tim was uncontrollably weeping, "Make it stop!").

Meanwhile, his sisters and I , who had been forced to listen to him extol the virtues of the eighteen year old the previous night at dinner (FYI, forty-something women do not want to hear how, at eighteen, everything is "in place") couldn't have been more pleased with his punishment.

Finally, here was incontrovertible proof that God was on my side.

Shop Till You Drop

I love to shop. Anywhere, anytime, for anything. But not in China.

Here, the rules of engagement are simple: You enter a store and stroll through the aisles where some lovely muzak is playing. Maybe someone offers to help you, or even bring you a soda. You choose an item (or thirty), select the correct size (S,M,L or XL --depending on how the diet is going), and pay what the tag tells you (unless it is on sale, and really, why buy something if it's not?) It's all very simple, very civilized.

Not in China.

There, you have to fight your way through a teeming mass of street vultures, er vendors, just to get to the store ("Hey lady, you want T-shirt, DVD, postcards?). Then, once inside, you fall prey to the pack of salespeople waiting to pounce upon the next victim. The hunter has become the hunted. (Muzak? who can hear anything except, "buy, buy, buy"?)

You wander, dazed, from stand to stand where everyone is selling the exact same things ("No, really, these are real pearls and diamonds for five dollars. See, I can grind them under my heel and they don't break." Yeah, always the mark of fine jewelry. I understand that's how De Beers tests their diamonds.)

If you pause or make eye contact, they have you and it's all over.

Suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by an endless sea of merchandise. You like rings? They have rings. Silver, Gold, Platinum(aluminum, painted aluminum, tin). Tiffany, Cartier, Harry Winston. (Riiiight) Watches? Rolex, Tag, Patek. (all made of lead) Trays and cases and boxes of whatever you want, or think you want, magically appear. Soon, you are buried under an avalanche of fakes, er genuine imitations.

What size do you want? XL,XXL, or XXXL? (Don't even think of looking at S, M, or L unless you make a supermodel look fat or are six years old. Not a real ego boosting experience when they refer you to the men's section because they don't have anything large enough to fit you in women's. The Chinese are seriously tiny compared to us huge, hulking Americans.)

Finally, desperate to escape, you make your selection. Then, the real fun begins.

They tell you it costs $400. It doesn't matter what it is, everything costs $400. (Of course, in Chinese money, this is eighty million dollars, and you have to do the math in your head, which is always fun.) You offer $1.

They pull at their hair, beat their chests, gnash their teeth...and drop the price to $300. You offer $2.

They tell you how pretty you are. How sweet you are. How smart you are. How that ring/watch/shirt was made for you, and only you because no one else would look good in it...and drop the price to $200. You offer $3.

By the way, this is all conducted via calculator. They enter their price, you hit clear and enter your price, they hit clear...and so on, and so on, and so on...Try that at Neiman Marcus.

Anyway, this goes on for some time. You start to walk away, they follow you, grab you, all but body tackle you. They swear you are killing them...slowly.

Finally, you pay $5-$10 for something that is worth fifty cents, and you are free -- sort of. You still have to fight your way back to the door and the bag you are holding labels you an easy mark.

When you do finally escape, exhausted, you sort through your haul only to find that, caught up in the moment, you now own an enormous pile of junk.

However, now that you've refined your bargaining skills, you are ready to go home and buy that used car you've been looking at for $5.

Here a Squat, There a Squat, Everywhere a Squat

There is a reason I don't go camping (actually, there are many, many reasons). But a really big one is that I can't squat behind a tree. Seriously, I think I am missing the squatting gene. Maybe, like some other diseases, it skips a generation, or maybe I was switched at birth with a member of the Royal family...yeah, that's it. (I mean, can you imagine HRH Liz hanging with Yogi, looking for a nice, leafy shrub to duck behind?)

Whatever the reason, China should not be on your top ten list of places to visit if you don't squat. Personally, I think their flag should be a toilet with a red line through it instead of a yellow star(s)! Much more helpful.

You had to squat at the wall, the palace, the Forbidden city, and most restaurants. The temples, the terra cotta soldiers site, even the airport all had squat toilets (picture a seat set into the floor with footprint guides on either side). Apparently, everything really is made in China except for toilets.

For someone who has managed to avoid squatting her whole life (and this includes two summers at camp) this was not good. And, as if the situation wasn't bad enough, the smell in these places was blinding! Imagine the elephant cage where the entire herd has been given Metamucil filled bran muffins on a ninety degree day and the air conditioning is broken. That would be an improvement.

To make matters worse, if, by some minor miracle, you did manage to get lucky and behind door number one was an actual toilet...surprise, no paper! I don't mean they ran out, I mean no paper. Ever. Not even a holder. Most of us, fortunately, had been forewarned and came prepared for just such an event. What we were not prepared for was the fact that you did not dispose of your paper in the toilet, but in the wastebasket next to it. (There's a job people are standing in line for!)

You didn't dare do otherwise and clog the only toilet for miles around that wasn't floor level or the sixty people in line behind you(all Americans of course) would have beaten you to death with their purse sized packs of Kleenex and bottles of anti-bacterial gel.

Now, since I don't squat (I was not about to break a life-long record), I didn't drink much during the day (to heck with worrying about germs and parasites, I was more worried about my shoes). Never was I so happy to see the hotel at the end of the day. Tim quickly got used to being second in my affections to a hunk of porcelain. He understood completely when I rushed past his outstretched arms to go embrace the toilet instead.

The hotel staff also took it in stride. They simply unloaded a case of water onto my bedside table every night and placed the recycling bin for the hotel outside our door. Either I am not the first person to ever try and rehydrate at night, or they suspected we were harboring a camel.

After a week of opening doors only to quickly shut them again, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Before getting on the plane for the return flight home, I did check out the bathroom situation. You can't be too careful, and thirteen and a half hours is a long time to wait for a seat.